Those last days of Maimie's visit sped by on winged feet. To
Ranald they were brimming with happiness, every one of them. It
was the slack time of the year, between seeding and harvest, and
there was nothing much to keep him at home. And so, with Harry,
his devoted companion, Ranald roamed the woods, hitching up Lisette
in Yankee's buckboard, put her through her paces, and would now and
then get up such bursts of speed as took Harry's breath away; and
more than all, there was the chance of a word with Maimie. He had
lost much of his awkwardness. He went about with an air of mastery,
and why not? He had entered upon his kingdom. The minister noticed
and wondered; his wife noticed and smiled sometimes, but oftener
sighed, wisely keeping silence, for she knew that in times like this
the best words were those unspoken.

The happiest day of all for Ranald was the last, when, after a long
tramp with Harry through the woods, he drove him back to the manse,
coming up from the gate to the door like a whirlwind.

"You go, Maimie," said her aunt, to whom every offered pleasure
simply furnished an opportunity of thought for others.

"Nonsense!" cried Harry, impatiently. "You might gratify yourself
a little for once in your life. Besides," he added, with true
brotherly blindness, "it's you Ranald wants. At least he talks
enough about you."

"Yes, auntie, do go! It will be lovely," chimed in Maimie, with
suspicious heartiness.

So, with many protestations, Mrs. Murray took her place beside
Ranald and was whirled off like the wind. She returned in a very
few minutes, her hair blown loose till the little curls hung about
her glowing face and her eyes shining with excitement.

"Oh, she is perfectly splendid!" she exclaimed. "And so gentle.
You must go, Maimie, if only to the gate." And Maimie went, but
not to turn at even the church hill.

For a mile down the concession road Ranald let Lisette jog at an
easy pace while he told Maimie some of his aims and hopes. He did
not mean to be a farmer nor a lumberman. He was going to the city,
and there make his fortune. He did not say it in words, but his
tone, his manner, everything about him, proclaimed his confidence
that some day he would be a great man. And Maimie believed him,
not because it seemed reasonable, or because there seemed to be any
ground for his confidence, but just because Ranald said it. His
superb self-confidence wrought in her assurance.

"Yes," said Ranald, "I know you will," as if that were a thing to
be expected. "But you will be coming back to your aunt here." But
of this Maimie could not be sure.

"Oh, yes, you will come," he said, confidently; "I am sure you will
come. Harry is coming, and you will come, too." And having
settled this point, he turned Lisette and from that out gave his
attention to his driving. The colt seemed to realize the necessity
of making a display of her best speed, and without any urging, she
went along the concession road, increasing her speed at every
stride till she wheeled in at the gate. Then Ranald shook the
lines over her back and called to her. Magnificently Lisette
responded, and swept up to the door with such splendid dash that
the whole household greeted her with waving applause. As the colt
came to a stand, Maimie stepped out from the buckboard, and turning
toward Ranald, said in a low, hurried voice: "O, Ranald, that was
splendid, and I am so happy; and you will be sure to come?"

"I will come," said Ranald, looking down into the blue eyes with a
look so long and steady and so full of passionate feeling that
Maimie knew he would keep his word.

Then farewells were said, and Ranald turned away, Harry and Mrs.
Murray watching him from the door till he disappeared over the
church hill.

"Well, that's the finest chap I ever saw," said Harry, with
emphasis. "And what a body he has! He would make a great half-
back."

"Poor Ranald! I hope he will make a great and good man," said his
aunt, with a ring of sadness in her voice.

"I'm sure I do not know," she said, with a very uncertain smile
playing about her mouth. Then she went upstairs and found Maimie
sitting at the window overlooking the church hill, and once more
she knew how golden is silence. So she set to work to pack
Maimie's trunk for her.

"It will be a very early start, Maimie," she said, "and so we will
get everything ready to-night."

"Yes, auntie," said Maimie, going to her and putting her arms about
her. "How happy I have been, and how good you have been to me!"

"Oh, I will never forget you! You have taught me so much that I
never knew before. I see everything so differently. It seems easy
to be good here, and, oh! I wish you were not so far away from me,
auntie. I am afraid--afraid--"

The tears could no longer be denied. She put her head in her
aunt's lap and sobbed out her heart's overflow. For an hour they
sat by the open trunk, forgetting all about the packing, while her
aunt talked to Maimie as no one had ever talked to her before; and
often, through the long years of suffering that followed, the words
of that evening came to Maimie to lighten and to comfort an hour of
fear and sorrow. Mrs. Murray was of those to whom it is given to
speak words that will not die with time, but will live, for that
they fall from lips touched with the fire of God.

Before they had finished their talk Harry came in, and then Mrs.
Murray told them about their mother, of her beauty and her
brightness and her goodness, but mostly of her goodness.

"She was a dear, dear girl," said their aunt, "and her goodness was
of the kind that makes one think of a fresh spring morning, so
bright, so sweet, and pure. And she was beautiful, too. You will
be like her, Maimie," and, after a pause, she added, softly, "And,
most of all, she loved her Saviour, and that was the secret of both
her beauty and her goodness."

"Auntie," said Harry, suddenly, "don't you think you could come to
us for a visit? It would do father--I mean it would be such a
great thing for father, and for me, too, for us all."

Mrs. Murray thought of her home and all its ties, and then said,
smiling: "I am afraid, Harry, that could hardly be. Besides, my
dear boy, there is One who can always be with you, and no one can
take His place."

"All the same, I wish you could come," said Harry. "When I am here
I feel like doing something with my life, but at home I only think
of having fun."

"But, Harry," said his aunt, "life is a very sacred and very
precious thing, and at all costs, you must make it worthy of Him
who gave it to you."

Next morning, when Harry was saying "Farewell" to his aunt, she put
her arms round him, and said: "Your mother would have wished you
to be a noble man, and you must not disappoint her."

For the next few weeks the minister and his wife were both busy and
anxious. For more than eight years they had labored with their
people without much sign of result. Week after week the minister
poured into his sermons the strength of his heart and mind, and
then gave them to his people with all the fervor of his nature.
Week after week his wife, in her women's meetings and in her Bible
class, lavished freely upon them the splendid riches of her
intellectual and spiritual powers, and together in the homes of the
people they wrought and taught. At times it seemed to the minister
that they were spending their strength for naught, and at such
times he bitterly grudged, not his own toils, but those of his
wife. None knew better than he how well fitted she was, both by
the native endowments of her mind and by the graces of her
character, to fill the highest sphere, and he sometimes grew
impatient that she should spend herself without stint and reap no
adequate reward.

These were his thoughts as he lay on his couch, on the evening of
the last Sabbath in the old church, after a day's work more than
usually exhausting. The new church was to be opened the following
week. For months it had been the burden of their prayers that at
the dedication of their church, which had been built and paid for
at the cost of much thought and toil, there should be some "signal
mark of the divine acceptance." No wonder the minister was more
than usually depressed to-night.

"There is not much sign of movement among the dry bones," he said
to his wife. "They are as dry and as dead as ever."

His wife was silent for some time, for she, too, had her moments of
doubt and fear, but she said: "I think there is some sign. The
people were certainly much impressed this morning, and the Bible
class was very large, and they were very attentive."

"So they are every day," said the minister, rather bitterly. "But
what does it amount to? There is not a sign of one of these young
people 'coming forward.' Just think, only one young man a member
of the church, and he hasn't got much spunk in him. And many of
the older men remain as hard as the nether millstone."

"I really think," said his wife, "that a number of the young people
would 'come forward' if some one would make a beginning. They are
all very shy."

"So you always say," said her husband, with a touch of impatience;
"but there is no shyness in other things, in their frolics and
their fightings. I am sure this last outrageous business is enough
to break one's heart."

"Oh, I suppose you will hear soon enough, so I need not try to keep
it from you. It was Long John Cameron told me. It is strange that
Hughie has not heard. Indeed, perhaps he has, but since his
beloved Ranald is involved, he is keeping it quiet."

"Oh, nothing less than a regular pitched battle between the
McGregors and the McRaes of the Sixteenth, and all on Ranald's
account, too, I believe."

Mrs. Murray sat in silent and bitter disappointment. She had
expected much from Ranald. Her husband went on with his tale.

"It seems there was an old quarrel between young Aleck McRae and
Ranald, over what I cannot find out; and young Angus McGregor, who
will do anything for a Macdonald, must needs take Ranald's part,
with the result that that hot-headed young fire-eater Aleck McRae
must challenge the whole clan McGregor. So it was arranged, on
Sunday morning, too, mind you, two weeks ago, after the service,
that six of the best of each side should meet and settle the
business. Of course Ranald was bound to be into it, and begged and
pleaded with the McGregors that he should be one of the six; and I
hear it was by Yankee's advice that his request was granted. That
godless fellow, it seems, has been giving Ranald daily lessons with
the boxing-gloves, and to some purpose, too, as the fight proved.
It seems that young Aleck McRae, who is a terrible fighter, and
must be forty pounds heavier than Ranald, was, by Ranald's especial
desire and by Yankee's arrangement, pitted against the boy, and by
the time the fight was over, Ranald, although beaten and bruised to
a 'bloody pulp,' as Long John said, had Aleck thoroughly whipped.
And nobody knows what would have happened, so fierce was the young
villain, had not Peter McGregor and Macdonald Bhain appeared upon
the scene. It appears Aleck had been saying something about Maimie,
Long John did not know what it was; but Ranald was determined to
finish Aleck up there and then. It must have been a disgusting and
terrible sight; but Macdonald Bhain apparently settled them in a
hurry; and what is more, made them all shake hands and promise to
drop the quarrel thenceforth. I fancy Ranald's handling of young
Aleck McRae did more to bring about the settlement than anything
else. What a lot of savages they are!" continued the minister. "It
really does not seem much use to preach to them."

"We must not say that, my dear," said his wife, but her tone was
none too hopeful. "I must confess I am disappointed in Ranald.
Well," she continued, "we can only wait and trust."

From Hughie, who had had the story from Don, and who had been
pledged to say nothing of it, she learned more about the fight.

"It was Aleck's fault, mother," he said, anxious to screen his
hero. "He said something about Maimie, that Don wouldn't tell me,
at the blacksmith shop in the Sixteenth, and Ranald struck him and
knocked him flat, and he could not get up for a long time. Yankee
has been showing him how. I am going to learn, mother," interjected
Hughie. "And then Angus McGregor took Ranald's part, and it was all
arranged after church, and Ranald was bound to be in it, and said he
would stop the whole thing if not allowed. Don said he was just
terrible. It was an awful fight. Angus McGregor fought Peter
McRae, Aleck's brother, you know and--"

"Never mind, Hughie," said his mother. "I don't want to hear of
it. It is too disgusting. Was Ranald much hurt?"

"Oh, he was hurt awful bad, and he was going to be licked, too. He
wouldn't keep cool enough, and he wouldn't use his legs."

"That's what Don says, and Yankee made him. Yankee kept calling to
him, 'Now get away, get away from him! Use your legs! Get away
from him!' and whenever Ranald began to do as he was told, then he
got the better of Aleck, and he gave Aleck a terrible hammering,
and Don said if Macdonald Bhain had not stopped them Aleck McRae
would not have been able to walk home. He said Ranald was awful.
He said he never saw him like he was that day. Wasn't it fine,
mother?"

"Fine, Hughie!" said his mother. "It is anything but fine. It is
simply disgusting to see men act like beasts. It is very, very
sad. I am very much disappointed in Ranald."

"But, mother, Ranald couldn't help it. And anyway, I am glad he
gave that Aleck McRae a good thrashing. Yankee said he would never
be right until he got it."

"You must not repeat what Yankee says," said his mother. "I am
afraid his influence is not of the best for any of those boys."

"Oh, mother, he didn't set them on," said Hughie, who wanted to be
fair to Yankee. "It was when he could not help it that he told
Ranald how to do. I am glad he did, too."

"I am very, very sorry about it," said his mother, sadly. It was a
greater disappointment to her than she cared to acknowledge either
to her husband or to herself.

But the commotion caused in the community by the fight was soon
swallowed up in the interest aroused by the opening of the new
church, an event for which they had made long and elaborate
preparation. The big bazaar, for which the women had been sewing
for a year or more, was held on Wednesday, and turned out to be a
great success, sufficient money being realized to pay for the
church furnishing, which they had undertaken to provide.

The day following was the first of the "Communion Season." In a
Highland congregation the Communion Seasons are the great occasions
of the year. For weeks before, the congregation is kept in mind of
the approaching event, and on the Thursday of the communion week
the season opens with a solemn fast day.

The annual Fast Day, still a national institution in Scotland,
although it has lost much of its solemnity and sacredness in some
places, was originally associated with the Lord's Supper, and was
observed with great strictness in the matter of eating and
drinking; and in Indian Lands, as in all congregations of that part
of the country, the custom of celebrating the Fast Day was kept up.
It was a day of great solemnity in the homes of the people of a
godly sort. There was no cooking of meals till after "the
services," and indeed, some of them tasted neither meat nor drink
the whole day long. To the younger people of the congregation it
was a day of gloom and terror, a kind of day of doom. Even to
those advanced in godliness it brought searchings of heart, minute
and diligent, with agonies of penitence and remorse. It was a day,
in short, in which conscience was invited to take command of the
memory and the imagination to the scourging of the soul for the
soul's good. The sermon for the day was supposed to stimulate and
to aid conscience in this work.

For the communion service Mr. Murray always made it a point to have
the assistance of the best preachers he could procure, and on this
occasion, when the church opening was combined with the sacrament,
by a special effort two preachers had been procured--a famous
divine from Huron County, that stronghold of Calvinism, and a
college professor who had been recently appointed, but who had
already gained a reputation as a doctrinal preacher, and who was,
as Peter McRae reported, "grand on the Attributes and terrible fine
on the Law." To him was assigned the honor of preaching the Fast
Day sermon, and of declaring the church "open."

The new church was very different from the old. Instead of the
high crow's nest, with the wonderful sounding-board over it, the
pulpit was simply a raised platform partly inclosed, with the desk
in front. There was no precentor's box, over the loss of which
Straight Rory did not grieve unduly, inasmuch as the singing was to
be led, in the English at least, by John "Aleck." Henceforth the
elders would sit with their families. The elders' seat was gone;
Peter McRae's wrath at this being somewhat appeased by his securing
for himself one of the short side seats at the right of the pulpit,
from which he could command a view of both the minister and the
congregation--a position with obvious advantages. The minister's
pew was at the very back of the church.

It was a great assemblage that gathered in the new church to hear
the professor discourse, as doubtless he would, it being the Fast
Day, upon some theme of judgment. With a great swing of triumph in
his voice, Mr. Murray rose and announced the Hundredth Psalm. An
electric thrill went through the congregation as, with a wave of
his hand, he said: "Let us rise and sing. Now, John, Old Hundred."

Never did John "Aleck" and the congregation of Indian Lands sing as
they did that morning. It was the first time that the congregation,
as a whole, had followed the lead of that great ringing voice, and
they followed with a joyous, triumphant shout, as of men come to
victory.

"What's the matter, mother?" whispered Hughie, who was standing up
in the seat that he might look on his mother's book.

"Nothing, darling," said his mother, her face radiant through her
tears. After long months of toil and waiting, they were actually
singing praise to God in the new church.

When the professor arose, it was an eager, responsive congregation
that waited for his word. The people were fully prepared for a
sermon that would shake them to their souls' depths. The younger
portion shivered and shrank from the ordeal; the older and more
experienced shivered and waited with not unpleasing anticipations;
it did them good, that remorseless examination of their hearts'
secret depravities. To some it was a kind of satisfaction offered
to conscience, after which they could more easily come to peace.
With others it was an honest, heroic effort to know themselves and
to right themselves with their God.

The text was disappointing. "Above all these things, put on
charity, which is the bond of perfectness," read the professor from
that exquisite and touching passage which begins at the twelfth
verse of the fifteenth chapter of Colossians. "Love, the bond of
perfectness," was his theme, and in simple, calm, lucid speech he
dilated upon the beauty, the excellence, and the supremacy of this
Christian grace. It was the most Godlike of all the virtues, for
God was love; and more than zeal, more than knowledge, more than
faith, it was "the mark" of the new birth.

Peter McRae was evidently keenly disappointed, and his whole bearing
expressed stern disapproval. And as the professor proceeded,
extolling and illustrating the supreme grace of love, Peter's hard
face grew harder than ever, and his eyes began to emit blue sparks
of fire. This was no day for the preaching of smooth things. The
people were there to consider and to lament their Original and
Actual sin; and they expected and required to hear of the judgments
of the Lord, and to be summoned to flee from the wrath to come.

Donald Ross sat with his kindly old face in a glow of delight, but
with a look of perplexity on it which his furtive glances in Peter's
direction did not help to lessen. The sermon was delighting and
touching him, but he was not quite sure whether this was a good sign
in him or no. He set himself now and then to find fault with the
sermon, but the preacher was so humble, so respectful, and above
all, so earnest, that Donald Ross could not bring himself to
criticise.

The application came under the third head. As a rule, the
application to a Fast Day sermon was delivered in terrifying tones
of thunder or in an awful whisper. But to-day the preacher,
without raising his voice, began to force into his hearers' hearts
the message of the day.

"This is a day for self-examination," he said, and his clear, quiet
tones fell into the ears of the people with penetrating power.
"And self-examination is a wise and profitable exercise. It is an
exercise of the soul designed to yield a discovery of sin in the
heart and life, and to induce penitence and contrition and so
secure pardon and peace. But too often, my friends," and here his
voice became a shade softer, "it results in a self-righteous and
sinful self-complaisance. What is required is a simple honesty of
mind and spiritual illumination, and the latter cannot be without
the former. There are those who are ever searching for 'the marks'
of a genuinely godly state of heart, and they have the idea that
these marks are obscure and difficult for plain people to discover.
Make no mistake, my brethren, they are as easily seen as are the
apples on a tree. The fruits of the spirit are as discernible to
any one honest enough and fearless enough to look; and the first
and supreme of all is that which we have been considering this
morning. The question for you and for me, my brethren, is simply
this: Are our lives full of the grace of love? Do not shrink from
the question. Do not deceive yourselves with any substitutes;
there are many offering zeal, the gift of prayer or of speech, yea,
the gift of faith itself. None of these will atone for the lack of
love. Let each ask himself, Am I a loving man?"

With quiet persistence he pursued them into all their relations in
life--husbands and wives, fathers and sons, neighbor and neighbor.
He would not let them escape. Relentlessly he forced them to
review their habits of speech and action, their attitude toward
each other as church members, and their attitude toward "those
without." Behind all refuges and through all subterfuges he made
his message follow them, searching their deepest hearts. And then,
with his face illumined as with divine fire, he made his final
appeal, while he reminded them of the Infinite love that had
stooped to save, and that had wrought itself out in the agonies of
the cross. And while he spoke his last words, all over the church
the women were weeping, and strong men were sitting trembling and
pale.

After a short prayer, the professor sat down. Then the minister
rose, and for some little time stood facing his people in silence,
the gleam in his eyes showing that his fervent Highland nature was
on fire.

"My people," he began, and his magnificent voice pealed forth like
a solemn bell, "this is the message of the Lord. Let none dare
refuse to hear. It is a message to your minister, it is a message
to you. You are anxious for 'the marks.' Search you for this
mark." He paused while the people sat looking at him in fixed and
breathless silence. Then, suddenly, he broke forth into a loud
cry: "Where are your children at this solemn time of privilege?
Fathers, where are your sons? Why were they not with you at the
Table? Are you men of love? Are you men of love, or by lack of
love are you shutting the door of the Kingdom against your sons
with their fightings and their quarrelings?" Then, raising his
hands high, he lifted his voice in a kind of wailing chant: "Woe
unto you! Woe unto you! Your house is left unto you desolate, and
the voice of love is crying over you. Ye would not! Ye would not!
O, Lamb of God, have mercy upon us! O, Christ, with the pierced
hands, save us!" Again he paused, looking upward, while the people
waited with uplifted white faces.

"Behold," he cried, in a soul-thrilling voice, "I see heaven open,
and Jesus standing at the right hand of God, and I hear a voice,
'Turn ye, turn ye. Why will ye die?' Lord Jesus, they will not
turn." Again he paused. "Listen. Depart from me, ye cursed, into
everlasting fire. Depart ye! Nay, Lord Jesus! not so! Have mercy
upon us!" His voice broke in its passionate cry. The effect was
overwhelming. The people swayed as trees before a mighty wind, and
a voice cried aloud from the congregation: "God be merciful to me,
a sinner!"

It was Macdonald Dubh. At that loud cry, women began to sob, and
some of the people rose from their seats.

"Be still," commanded the minister. "Rend your hearts and not your
garments. Let us pray." And as he prayed, the cries and sobs
subsided and a great calm fell upon all. After prayer, the
minister, instead of giving out a closing psalm, solemnly charged
the people to go to their homes and to consider that the Lord had
come very near them, and adjured them not to grieve the Holy Spirit
of God. Then he dismissed them with the benediction.

The people went out of the church, subdued and astonished,
speaking, if at all, in low tones of what they had seen and heard.

Immediately after pronouncing the benediction, the minister came
down to find Macdonald Dubh, but he was nowhere to be seen. Toward
evening Mrs. Murray rode over to his house, but found that he had
not returned from the morning service.

"He will be at his brother's," said Kirsty, "and Ranald will drive
over for him."

Immediately Ranald hitched up Lisette and drove over to his
uncle's, but as he was returning he sent in word to the manse, his
face being not yet presentable, that his father was nowhere to be
found. It was Macdonald Bhain that found him at last in the woods,
prone upon his face, and in an agony.

"Hugh, man," he cried, "what ails you?" But there were only low
groans for answer.

And so his brother brought him home, shaken in spirit and exhausted
in body with his long fast and his overpowering emotion. All night
through his brother watched with him alone, for Macdonald Dubh
would have no one else to see him, till, from utter exhaustion,
toward the dawning of the day, he fell asleep.

In the early morning the minister and his wife drove over to see
him, and leaving his wife with Kirsty, the minister passed at once
into Macdonald Dubh's room. But, in spite of all his reasoning, in
spite of all his readings and his prayers, the gloom remained
unbroken except by occasional paroxysms of fear and remorse.

"There is no forgiveness! There is no forgiveness!" was the burden
of his cry.

In vain the minister proclaimed to him the mercy of God. At length
he was forced to leave him to attend the "Question Meeting" which
was to be held in the church that day. But he left his wife behind
him.

Without a word, Mrs. Murray proceeded to make the poor man
comfortable. She prepared a dainty breakfast and carried it in to
him, and then she sat beside him while he fell into a deep sleep.

It was afternoon when Macdonald Dubh awoke and greeted her with his
wonted grave courtesy.

"You are better, Mr. Macdonald," she said, brightly. "And now I
will make you a fresh cup of tea"; and though he protested, she
hurried out, and in a few moments brought him some tea and toast.
Then, while he lay in gloomy silence, she read to him, as she did
once before from his Gaelic psalm book, without a word of comment.
And then she began to tell him of all the hopes she had cherished
in connection with the opening of the new church, and how that day
she had felt at last the blessing had come.

"And, O, Mr. Macdonald," she said, "I was glad to hear you cry, for
then I knew that the Spirit of God was among us."

"Yes, glad. For a cry like that never comes but when the Spirit of
God moves in the heart of a man."

"Indeed, I will be thinking that He has cast me off forever," he
said, wondering at this new phase of the subject.

"Then you must thank Him, Mr. Macdonald, that He has not so done;
and the sure proof to you is that He has brought you to cry for
mercy. That is a glad cry, in the ears of the Saviour. It is the
cry of the sheep in the wilderness, that discovers him to the
shepherd." And then, without argument, she took him into her
confidence and poured out to him all her hopes and fears for the
young people of the congregation, and especially for Ranald, till
Macdonald Dubh partly forgot his own fears in hers. And then, just
before it was time for Kirsty to arrive from the "Question Meeting,"
she took her Gaelic Bible and opened at the Lord's Prayer, as she
had done once before.

"It is a terrible thing to be unforgiven, Mr. Macdonald," she said,
"by man or by God. And God is unwilling that any of us should feel
that pain, and that is why he is so free with his offer of pardon
to all who come with sorrow to him. They come with sorrow to him
now, but they will come to him some day with great joy." And then
she spoke a little of the great company of the forgiven before the
throne, and at the very last, a few words about the gentle little
woman that had passed out from Macdonald Dubh's sight so many years
before. Then, falling on her knees, she began in the Gaelic,

"Our Father which art in Heaven."

Earnestly and brokenly Macdonald Dubh followed, whispering the
petitions after her. When they came to

"Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors,"

Macdonald Dubh broke forth: "Oh, it is a little thing, whatever!
It is little I have to forgive." And then, in a clear, firm voice,
he repeated the words after her to the close of the prayer.

Then Mrs. Murray rose, and taking him by the hand to bid him good
by, she said, slowly: "'For if ye forgive men their trespasses,
your heavenly Father will also forgive you your trespasses.' You
have forgiven, Mr. Macdonald."

"Then," replied Mrs. Murray, "the Lord will not break his promise
to you." And with that she went away.

On Saturday morning the session met before the service for the day.
In the midst of their deliberations the door opened and Macdonald
Bhain and his brother, Macdonald Dubh, walked in and stood silent
before the elders. Mr. Murray rose astonished, and coming forward,
said to Macdonald Bhain: "What is it, Mr. Macdonald? You wish to
see me?"

"I am here," he said, "for my own sake and for my brother's. We
wish to make confession of our sins, in that we have not been men
of love, and to seek the forgiveness of God."

The minister stood and gazed at him in amazed silence for some
moments, and then, giving his hand to Macdonald Dubh, he said, in a
voice husky with emotion: "Come away, my brother. The Lord has a
welcome for you."

And there were no questions that day asked in the session before
Macdonald Dubh received his token.